Blade raised, metal clash. An inevitable dance of death ensues. Li Weizhen can no longer feign calm.
He does not scream, nor does he swing wildly, carefully parrying and blocking each and every one of Hongyue Wanai's blows. Though his visage remains in its pointedly stoic gaze, his eyes reflect madness, rage and grief.
And when he steps forward, he does it with conviction. His focus is narrowed, a decisive thrust of his blade with pinpoint aim. But Hongyue Wanai is no simple foe, easily able to counter, to parry, to meet the breadth of Weizen's emotions with his own.
Two insane men with brandished swords. The atmosphere is one so poisonous and heavy with hatred, madness, sorrow and killing intent. Not a single outsider is able to approach. Not a single person would dare.
A cloud of dirt is kicked up, muscles strains as blows clash. When Weizhen receives a cut on his arm, he delivers one back to Hongyue Wanai's thigh.
